Call Home
by dri-dri93
Summary: Maroon 5 had always had more significance to them. When Clint starts singing Payphone to him over the phone, he doesn't know what to think... (Phil & Clint friendship, possibly pre-slash)


Heya, everyone. If you don't check up on my profile, you won't know this. I'm banned from this site by my home internet server (dear old dad). I'm posting this from school. If you want a better place to follow me, look me up on under the same username. I'll probably post oneshots there.

Ghost in the Machine updates are probably not coming anytime soon. AT least until the middle of October. School is being absolutely awful, and I'm in the single most important year of my high school career (so my teachers continuously babble). So, yeah. Got a shit-ton of homework. But I promise that I will write.

* * *

_I'm at a payphone, tryin' to call home,_

_All of my change, I spent on you…_

"My God Phil, what is this shit?" Clint yelped as he strolled into said agent's office.

Phil smiled up at the archer from his desk, muttering, "It's only Maroon 5, Clint. Helps me get back to equilibrium after _someone_ drives my blood pressure through the roof."

The archer snorted, "Only Maroon 5? This is shit music! And I was okay the whole time, Phil, I totally had an escape plan."

Phil grinned. "If an escape plan involves being shot in the leg and almost passing out from blood loss, then that was a good escape plan, Clint. What do you have against my music, anyway?"

Clint groaned, "The only way I'd be caught singing this is if I was dying or something, man. This is…" He trailed off as his handler's face turned stony, his eyes staring into space. "But, of course, that'd be stupid, you know? Why'd I do something like that?"

Over a year later, Phil was once again working in his office, doing paperwork. He ignored the drag of the pen tip across the paper, indicating that he was pressing down just a little too hard. A junior agent walked into the space, attracting the full force of Phil's glare, and stuttered, "We're looking as hard as we can, Agent Coulson."

Silence fell, and the rookie swallowed hard, sweat dripping down his temple. He'd never seen Agent Coulson so…furious before. "I…I'm sure he'll be fine, sir. I've heard that he got out of worse on his own before."

As the agent left, he couldn't help but overhear the unflappable Agent Coulson mutter, "But it's never taken this long before…"

At that exact moment, said archer was stumbling his way across the streets of Prague, searching for a payphone. He finally found one just outside of a coffee shop and entered the quaint booth, digging the last of his change out of his pocket.

The phone rang once, and Jarvis picked up. "May I inquire as to who this is?"

Clint coughed wetly, trying to keep blood from dripping onto the receiver. "Jus' me, J," he muttered.

"Very well, Agent Barton, might I inquire as to your reasons for contacting Avengers Tower instead of Agent Coulson then?" the AI immediately began.

Clint coughed again, before stuttering, "Jus'…Jus'…broadcas' me t' the Tower an' SHIELD please, J. Phil won' have his phone…"

The AI was silent for a short moment (not short enough to keep the archer from hacking again), until his voice came back through: "You are in, sir."

Clint smiled, his teeth red against his pale skin, and muttered, "Thanks, J." Then he drew a deep breath, held back a nasty cough, and began to sing:

"I'm at a payphone, tryin' to call home,  
All of my las' change spent on you.  
Don' know this song, I know that I'm wrong,  
I got a table set for two.  
If happ'ly ever after did exist,  
I would not be callin' you for this.  
Whoever wrote this song is full of shit,  
Phil I sure hope you're lis-sen-in' to this…"

A cough broke through, and he wheezed, "Jarvis, end the call." A dial tone was his only reply.

Fury stormed into his office not a minute later, growling, "Coulson. Get out there and fix this." Of course the director knew everything. That was Fury's way. Coulson had resigned himself to that years ago. But now? He couldn't bring himself to move.

Clint had sung Maroon 5. To him. After what he said…

Phil heaved a sigh – he would deny to his dying day that it was a sob – and stated, "He's dying, Director."

Fury snarled in return, "And that's why you have to get your ass in gear, Agent! We can't lose Barton now!"

Coulson was still frozen until Natasha Romanov herself kicked the door in (when had it closed, Fury was gone?), grabbed his lapels, and dragged him bodily to the Quinjet. "No arguing," she hissed to his catatonic face, "We will get him back. Jarvis has a tracker on the phone he used. It's in Prague."

Coulson looked up at that, a small grimace trying to get through. That was all that Natasha needed to slam the jet into autopilot and slide onto the bench next to him, touching his shoulder. "We will find him, Phil. We have to," she soothed.

Coulson relaxed slowly, allowing his protégé to talk him down. But in the back of his mind, an insidious voice kept repeating Clint's words: "The only way I'd be caught singing this is if I was dying…if I was dying…dying….dead."

They never found the body. All they found was a trail of blood, starting in a warehouse just a few blocks away from the phone booth, where it coalesced into a large puddle on the white tile of the booth. Then a spattering of droplets led away, deeper into the city…until they just stopped.

The funeral was a mockery in Coulson's eyes – an empty casket for one of the best men he'd ever known. He left before the eulogies started.

He wouldn't let the rookies see him cry.

A year later, his cell phone rang. He picked it up, expecting a desperate call from the Avenger's PR manager, or maybe their babysitter (he couldn't – wouldn't be their handler, not without him).  
Instead, an eerily familiar song drifted from the speakers:

"Since happ'ly ever after does exist,  
Turns out that I'm calling you like this.  
Please don't think that I am full of shit,  
I hate how we just ended up like this…"

Phil held his breath, whispering, "Clint?"

* * *

If you wanna see Phil/Clint in there, okay. I still have no clue what it is. I have a nasty way of writing something on the fly and then looking over at asking myself, "Why the hell do I torture these guys like this?"

But yeah. Reviews are the lifeblood of my heart. I will love you forever.


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